


Don't Hurry

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always an entertaining change of pace when things didn’t go exactly Sherlock’s way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Hurry

How much time had to pass, John wondered, before he was justified in worrying over Sherlock’s extended absence? Twenty-four hours? A week? Several months? At this point, it had only been fourteen hours since Sherlock had left, but then again, his last words to John as the door shut had been, “I’m just popping out to do some shopping.” 

Sometimes it stung John when Sherlock went off by himself on adventures. Then again, other times he wished he’d been left at home (such as, oh God, that one time, with the colossal blob of congealed fat in the sewer…). 

What _would_ John do if Sherlock disappeared without a trace? Call the police? Seemed silly. Mycroft kept a careful eye on Sherlock; certainly if something went terribly wrong, John decided, he would hear from Mycroft. Comforted with that conjecture, John ate the take-away he’d ordered and went to bed with a novel that Sarah had suggested he read, on the basis that it “had really changed the way she looked at life.” 

He was just beginning to nod off when he heard the street door open, and Sherlock’s swift but precise tread on the stair. 

“Any takeaway left?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “I know you ordered enough for both of us.” 

“In the fridge, genius,” John shouted back. 

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock swept into the bedroom (he could never just _enter_ a room, John had noticed), pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the floor, seemingly without a care for who might have to find the left one for him later, after he’d kicked it under the bed. 

“You said you were just out to do some shopping,” John said. 

“Yes.” 

“That was at eight this morning. It is now eleven-thirty in the evening.” 

Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, “Yes, that’s how long it took to track down the nurse who’s been selling organs on the black market.” 

“Oh my god, _shopping_ ,” John said under his breath. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “Did you…actually…buy any--” 

“Yes, but I don’t still have it.” 

“Ah. Well, good, because there’s no room left in the fridge. Now, I haven’t seen you all day; do I get a kiss?” 

Sherlock nodded once, mostly to himself, acknowledging that his behaviour was being coached but that he accepted it. He leaned down and gave John a peck on the cheek. He intended to pull back, so that he could undress and get in bed, but when he inhaled, something made him pause. He grabbed John by the wrist and lifted his arm. When John did not resist him, he put his face in John’s armpit and inhaled deeply. 

“Something broke in the flat and you fixed it,” he said, whilst maintaining the proximity between his face and John’s armpit. 

John’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, I dropped a mug and the handle broke.” He shook himself free of Sherlock’s grasp and put his arm back down. “How did you know?” 

“You used that super-strength adhesive. It got on your hands.” 

“And then I washed my hands.” 

“Yes, but before you washed it off, some of it was absorbed by your skin. Now I can smell it in your sweat. Also, you had a cheese and onion toasty for lunch.” 

Sherlock stood up straight and began undressing, first coat and scarf, then shoes, socks, trousers, shirt…certainly he noticed John watching with interest, but that did not prompt him to do it in any more of a titillating manner. All the while he went through his routine of winding-down yawns and sighs. He got under the duvet without snuggling up to John; it was clear that he was not interested in anything but sleep. But John wasn’t going to let him off that easily. 

“I can smell things too, you know,” John said. 

Sherlock rolled over and looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “Oh?” 

John wrestled Sherlock onto his back, then grabbed one arm to lift it. He ducked his head, rubbing his cheek against the soft flesh of Sherlock’s side and sliding up until the fuzz under Sherlock’s arm tickled his nose. He took several whiffs, gave a thoughtful hum, then moved to do the same to the other armpit. And then up to Sherlock’s neck, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s skin until Sherlock seized up, trying desperately not to giggle. 

“Well?” Sherlock croaked, lowering his arm to defend himself from the tickling, squeezing John out. “What do you smell?” 

“I can smell that you find me irresistibly attractive,” John said, in between the kisses he dropped on Sherlock’s shoulder and bicep, “and you’d like to have sex with me.” 

“Preposterous.” 

John raised one eyebrow. “Are you calling my nose a liar?” 

Sherlock responded only with a defiant expression, and perhaps his lips pursed just the slightest bit in invitation. “Hmm, that’s funny,” John said, “now my eyes are telling me the same thing my nose did.” And he leaned in to take a kiss from that pouting mouth. 

Sherlock opened up, touched John’s lip with just the tip of his tongue, then withdrew. He was imploring John to delve deeply. John could not suppress a groan at the invitation to explore Sherlock’s eager mouth. Even an ordinary kiss could make his cock twitch and leak; a really clever one made his balls ache. Soon Sherlock was becoming more aggressive, pushing at John’s tongue with his own, to get him to put it away, just so he could explore John’s mouth in turn. 

John pulled away just long enough to gasp, “What do you want to do for me tonight? Hm? D’you want to get on your hands and knees for me?” His tongue darted round the shell of Sherlock’s ear, which significantly delayed Sherlock’s ability to respond. At last, Sherlock managed to get out a “Yes,” and turned himself over. 

John reveled in the sight of Sherlock in such an unabashedly submissive position. He ran his hands along Sherlock’s flanks, and for a moment he had a fleeting thought that the gesture made him appear as though he were inspecting some livestock before deciding to purchase. That thought amused him, so he put a finger against Sherlock’s lips, prodding until Sherlock took it in and sucked eagerly. He felt around inside, stroking Sherlock’s tongue, and hummed with approval. 

After removing the digit from Sherlock’s mouth, he took the bottle of lube from the bedside table, squeezed some onto that finger, and slid it straight up Sherlock’s arse. 

“Oh, ah, yes,” Sherlock hissed. 

“Lovely,” John murmured as he had a bit of a feel about inside. He decided that, considering the direction this was going, it was probably time to dispense with the “inspection” – perhaps save it for when he was feeling a bit weirder – and when he squeezed out some extra lube to get a second finger in, he did so in a much more loving and considerate manner. 

To Sherlock, however, he was still proceeding too quickly. “Don’t hurry,” he said. “Work me open slowly.” 

Partly, this request was motivated by Sherlock’s desire to see his pleasure drawn out, hopefully to the point of anguish and begging for release on his part. But it was also a practical matter: John’s cock was thick, and always made Sherlock feel so full, just the right amount of too much. In this instance, as ever, they always had to use so much lube that when Sherlock finally felt himself to be ready, John could barely hold onto himself and guide himself properly for all the slickness. And by the time he’d begun to properly get it in, the warmed-up lube was dripping down Sherlock’s perineum and over his balls, and the tickling of it made him squirm, rocking John’s cock even further into him. But girth be damned, Sherlock always wanted to get as much of John’s cock in him as was possible, and then squeeze it, so John would make _that_ noise. 

It was called the “passive” role, but there was nothing passive about the way Sherlock did it. He directed John, “harder,” “slower,” “put your hand here,” and when he decided he was still not happy, he gave up his submissive stance and got on top with a sigh, as though resigned to the fact that he was the only person on the planet who knew how to fuck properly. 

John knew that Sherlock liked to take his time with it, to experiment until it felt perfect, but the sight of Sherlock wriggling on his cock, grunting with absolutely no sense of decorum, did not make it easy for him. When Sherlock leaned back and changed the angle, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, for he began to yelp with surprise and pleasure, and reached down to slide his foreskin back and forth over the tip of his cock. At the sight of this, and at the feel of Sherlock’s newly enthusiastic rocking and squeezing, John suddenly felt his spunk coming and could not stop it. He swore and ground his heels into the mattress as he emptied himself into Sherlock, consumed with bliss; that is, until he came back to himself, and felt Sherlock’s murderous gaze upon him. 

He did feel a bit guilty about coming first, but then it was always an entertaining change of pace when things didn’t go exactly Sherlock’s way. He grinned at Sherlock’s vicious countenance. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you need something?” 

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture of bravado that was made somewhat less daunting by the fact that just at that moment, John’s soft cock slipped out of him, causing him to utter a little squeak of surprise. Nonetheless, he pressed on, snarling, “I’m not a _charity_.” 

“Calm down,” John chuckled, “you’ll get yours.” He lifted his shoulders off the bed, leaning forward just enough to grab Sherlock’s arse with both hands and pull him forward onto John’s chest. From there John could get Sherlock’s cock right down his throat, which hopefully would be enough to appease him. 

The first hard suckle went straight to Sherlock’s gut and he gasped. The second made him squirm, and John felt beneath his palms the clenching of his arse. Sherlock had been close, no wonder he was annoyed. John reached back to touch Sherlock’s loose, dripping hole, which made Sherlock shiver with how hot and filthy the gesture was, so that by the third hard pull of John’s lips over his shaft, he came with a strangled cry as John pulled his spunk right out of him. Nicotine had made it vile, but a poor diet had reduced it to a trickle, and so John got it down easily. 

Sherlock tried to tilt back just enough to politely get his cock out of John’s face, but ended up falling sideways and kicking John in the chin. (“Oh, I _grazed_ you,” he snapped when John swore at him and thumped him back.) 

John sat up and then immediately flopped over, to cover Sherlock’s sweaty, sticky body with his own. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, then nuzzled all the way down, letting his warm breath caress Sherlock’s skin, until he was nuzzling the fragrant patch of dark pubic hair. Then he came back up again to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Hmm, I like the way you smell now. You smell like I just fucked you.” 

Sherlock stretched his neck invitingly, put his arms around John to hold him close, and said, “You still smell a bit like onions.”


End file.
